


Next time, don't run out of air.

by Flora (florahart)



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore (less than canon), OFC - Freeform, Sibling Incest, Underage sexual thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/Flora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hansel is sick and he's not getting better, so first they gotta deal with that.  Then they gotta figure out what to do with their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next time, don't run out of air.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anne_Animouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_Animouse/gifts).



> So, you said you didn't really see the Hansel/Gretel vibe, but that it was okay if it went there. Um, it went there? But there is not actual porn in this fic.
> 
> Re: age: young!H&G's age is unspecified in the film, but I felt like they were maybe elevenish, obviously old enough that once they escaped they managed to make their own way, but still quite a lot too young to have to. I've written in the passage of years here, so arguably by the time anything sexual happens, they would be over the age of consent in some or even all places, but I didn't specify exactly.

It's been six months since they shoved the witch into the oven, and Hansel is pretty sure (completely sure, actually. But saying so out loud still feels weird) she cursed him when he wasn't looking, which is seriously unsportsmanlike. Unsportswitchlike. Whatever. Shitty, because what, she wanted to ensure his suffering even if she didn't get to eat him? Who _thinks_ that way?

(Ask a stupid question – _witches_ think that way, is who.)

Anyway, it's just getting worse since their escape, starting all of five or six days after they sprinted out of that nasty sugar-frosted hell, and there's no way that's a coincidence, right? He's always been healthy and strong and able to do everything he asked of himself and just like his mother always told him he would be, and all of a sudden he's nothing but ill. All he wants is water, like there's never enough in the whole big world, and all he can do is sleep and roll over and sleep some more. And okay, he's not afraid to admit he's been lazy a time or two before right now, but this is different. This is constant and it feels like it's in his belly and his bones, and it's freaking Gretel out, and besides that he actually likes his sister way better than any of the other boys in the school they used to go to before they started, well, whatever this traveling/camping/squatting adventure is they're doing, she's also the only thing he has left in the world, not that she's a _thing_ , and it seems extra horrible that not only does she have whatever goes on in her head about having been forced to feed him all the time to fatten him up (he's calling it about 97% certain that had the situation been reversed, he would be completely screwed up about it even though from this side he can see it was definitely not her fault) but also now she has to take care of him. Like, physically take care of him, like a little kid.

So basically everything about this is messed up. And today is a particularly bad day; he didn't even hear her leave, and usually he rouses at least a bit.

He sits up groggily, putting his feet down and trying ineffectively to arrange himself upright on his butt on the bench she made him take while she took the floor (again, and honestly, this whole game is just wildly unfair to her, so if he's going to die of cursing, he really wishes it was just going to be over with already so she could get on with her life and find a place to fit in the world), and…oh hey, that's new.

When he opens his eyes again, he's gone from upright to sprawled awkwardly on the floor with no memory of anything in between, and wow, there's nothing okay about the way his arm is all twisted under his back.

"Hansel? What happened?"

He turns his head, which is apparently an even worse idea than trying to sit up, and groans. His head is spinning, and he feels like his skin is two sizes too small. "Gretel?"

She sighs and sets down her bucket (where did she get a clean bucket?), then kneels beside him to lift his body enough he can get his arm out from under. It hurts to move it, but she doesn't need any more problems so he doesn't say anything about that. She props him against the bench, leaning half upright, and fetches the bucket, which has in it fresh water and a mug.

He regards the mug for a minute before gulping down the water, then, when he's satiated (for the moment; it's going to be back) he says, "Okay, you really need to just poison me or something and get this over with. Or leave me with someone who will, because I can't keep doing this."

What he means is, _she_ can't, on his behalf. He can't keep watching her, more than he can't actually tolerate being ill. 

Although being ill is seriously for the birds, no doubt about that.

She opens her mouth to snap back that she is _not_ doing either of these things (the argument is familiar and they have a pattern going on, although this is the first time he's suggested poison specifically), then she pauses, lips apart, and looks at him appraisingly.

It's kind of embarrassing, having her check his skin and bandage the weird sores that sometimes show up pretty much everywhere, and if her face while she does it is any indication, it's no party for her, either. But this isn't like that. This is like she's assessing something, like she's deciding whether he can take it.

He wants to say he can totally, definitely take it, but at this point he's so weak he's not entirely sure he'd survive being an innocent bystander in an attack of one kitten by another, so he just lets her look and sips more water because being satiated was exactly as temporary as expected.

"I had an idea," she says after a couple of breaths.

"For a poison? Because, I mean, I could have told you there are about nine different ones available for mashing, brewing, or mixing within this very clearing."

"No, Hansel. I had an idea about how to go about fixing what's wrong, but I don't like the solution."

"About what's wrong? What the fuck, Gert? That's pretty obvious."

"Don't call me that."

He grins at the grumpy expression she puts on at the name he called her when they were toddlers. "Well, seriously. What's wrong is, a fucking witch cursed me."

"Yes, but what I mean is, I've noticed you're better or worse because of what you eat--"

"Worse or slightly less worse, you mean."

"Whatever. We need to figure out the pattern, though. Obviously, you're worse with sugar."

"Which is a blessing and a curse," Hansel says. "Never want to see it again, sweet sweet candy."

"Yes, but even a little honey in a cup of tea sends you to bed," Gretel tells him. 

"What does that have to do with the solution?" Hansel feels himself starting to list again, and he forgets there's a cup in his hand as he tries to push himself upright, which means he dumps water on the floor and therefore on the seat of his pants (perfect! Obviously today just goes to show he's on track to level up here). He sighs. "I mean, if I could just eat, what d'you think, steamed seaweed? Frozen fairy toes? Troll butt casserole? Then I would, but even on the days you're saying are better, I feel like maybe a moose stomped on every part of me so I don't really think that would help."

She hands him a cloth to mop up with and refills the cup. "But maybe it's that when you eat the foods that help, there's no way to get enough into you fast enough to go against the poison that witch put there. I think we need to get it in you faster."

He shrugs. "So?"

"So, I think we need to get it in you faster by cooking it down and then giving it to you all at once."

"With a needle." He feels his lip curl up in disgust. "I _hate_ needles."

"I know. Also, if it doesn't work, it might poison you faster."

"So basically, when I said you need to poison me?"

"I know. I think I'm going to do it. Or, we are--I discussed it with a local herb-woman." Gretel hands him the cup again and he drinks one more time.

"Herb-woman. Wait, you told someone?" Hansel is outraged for a moment at the breach of his privacy that feels dangerous, like if people know he's ill they might use it to hurt them, but then he takes a breath. What does he know? Gretel is the one that takes care of everything anyway. "So, does she know how to do it?"

"She's done it before, although not for someone with the exact condition you have, or in as bad of shape as you." Gretel takes back the cup and refills it for herself. "But I don't think you'll make it through the winter without something changing."

And of course, she's right, which Hansel hates kind of a lot because as much as he does like his sister, he still wants to think of himself as in charge of at least himself, even though that's obviously not true, not any more and maybe it never has been, since he's never really been alone. Except here, while she was alone out there, and look how that turned out.

"Okay," he says. "What do you need me to do?"

Gretel smiles, a little shaky, and hugs him around the neck. "I thought you'd say no," she says. 

"Yeah, me too." He clings for a few seconds, then pushes her back. "I never signed up for needles."

\--

The process this herb-woman (Marta) has in mind _completely blows_ , not that Hansel is going to complain because he doesn't want to be any whinier than he has to be. She teaches Gretel to punch a hole in his arm and pull out blood with a rubber tube and a thing that's kind of like a tiny bellows only it's being used to suck instead of blow, and then she teaches her to make a series of lenses that lets her see all the pieces of it. The blood, not the bellows. They work together while Hansel sleeps and sleeps until it should be impossible to ever sleep again, trying different things to kill whatever it is they see that isn't normal (and whoever came up with the idea of knowing off the top of their head what the pieces of normal blood look like all ballooned up to a million times their usual size is not a reasonable person, seriously) and then waking him up, feeding him different things, taking out more blood until he can't sit up.

This is, for the record, not any better than the forced feeding at the hands of the witch.

Well, no, it feels better in that he knows it's being done for his own good. It's just that he's so weak he wants to vomit and he's so drained of blood he's pretty sure he can see through his own hands, and so yeah, it feels like shit, although in the privacy of his head he's debating whether that's like dragon shit, big and overpowering, or like, um, worm shit, everywhere and insignificant and gross.

What, he never said he was actually _lucid_.

Still, when they come back for what must be the fiftieth time in a month and a day, when his arms look like he's been crushing blueberries between his elbows by the dozens for the sheer joy of having some kind of color anywhere on him, he shakes his head. "Gretel, this isn't--"

"We're close, Hansel. Right now, we need you to rest so when we're ready, you are, too."

He sighs. "But you need more blood? I don't know if I have any more."

"Not now," she says. She kisses his forehead. "Right now, I just wanted to tell you we're making progress."

He definitely does not cry, not at all, at the absence of needles in that answer.

\--

In the end, compared to the device to pull blood out, the one to push thick syrup into him is painless. Still, it's a hassle, and it's quickly clear this is a _treatment_ , not a _cure_. He's better quickly when they inject a spoonful into the muscle of his thigh (oh good, because what he needs is bruised _legs_ , too), but within an hour he's stumbling again, and while part of that is probably because by now he's been more down than up for most of a year, by nightfall they have to inject him again.

Over the course of another month, during which Marta requires both of them to learn letters and figuring far beyond what they'd come in with, the three of them determine the timing and the dose that keeps him well. And then they start working on making Hansel strong again. 

(Based on the first day, this is going to take roughly forever; it's all he can do to shuffle out into the yard and split one slender log into kindling with a hatchet. He drops it when he's done because he can't lift it again, and his fingers, his fingers that used to be clever and dexterous, are too fumbling to bring his kindling inside. He really hopes this isn't his life now, because he's like a little old man and that's not how he wants to live for the next forty years.)

Meanwhile, they read the newspapers (too many horrible stories to mention, but there's nothing they can do about that right now) and learn to make Hansel's medicine, boiling the ingredients carefully and with particular attention to the order and arrangement of their tools and environment. Hansel swears that when Marta adds the last sprinkle of bark dust, she glows white for an instant, but then the same thing happens when Gretel makes a batch, and he decides it's a trick of the light. Well, that is, a feature of how the syrup shimmers and sparks on contact. Hansel can't make it correctly himself for all he tries, somehow scorching or understirring or overboiling something every time, and that's a problem because it means he's dependent on her, but then, he was already, and maybe he doesn't want to be separated anyway; now he has a reason.

The arrangement they come to is that Hansel will learn how to find and gather the materials, and Gretel will make the syrup. Marta has told them that now it's started, he'll need it always and will fall ill again quickly, maybe die, if it's delayed, but Hansel just figures he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it, and worst case, Gretel will stop having to spend time stirring powders into golden goo. Plus, they can't keep imposing on Marta forever, obviously, both because they need to be independent and because what they hell, she's going to kick them out eventually as they're not her problem--fair enough.

He designs the machine to inject the stuff himself, his fingers clever again, and Gretel suggests a holster to keep it close.

By the spring, everyone agrees Hansel is ready to travel again, and they set out one bright morning with a month's supply in their bag (and several days strapped to Hansel's thigh), a pair of fairly uncomplicated rifles Hansel means to tinker with at his early opportunity because witches aren't stopped by anything like a piddly bullet through the gut, now are they, and a map of the north, where in the cities they can surely find work to sustain them by autumn.

\--

Or, as it turns out halfway to Flüßchendorf, work can find them. They're bunked in a tree, tied three limbs above anywhere they'd be seen with a harness thing Hansel's pretty proud of for the way it rips away if they need out in a hurry. The tree is part of a cluster just outside a village that definitely has forty times as many sheep as people, and Hansel thinks they've probably been asleep for barely two hours when the scream wakes them.

The rip-release woks exactly the way it's supposed to and Gretel hits the ground half a second after him, catching her rifle as the counterbalance drops it along the trunk. She glances at him and grins when it works exactly the way he said it would. "Nice."

"Thanks." There's another scream, the high voice of a child, and they run toward it because they've talked about this: no one came for them when the witch took them, and they don't want that to happen to anyone else. Not if they can help it.

Gretel's the better shot with the rifle, and Hansel plans for that, setting her up by providing a pain in the ass distraction while she sets up her shot and then following up with the machete he has strapped to his other thigh. 

New rule, he thinks after the situation is handled. Definitely always separate a witch from her head. It's efficient and also really fucking gratifying, and as long as the head burns, that's all that really matters--the rest won't, like, come back to life on its own.

When he tells Gretel the rule, she shrugs. "Long as she's dead," she says, and he has to agree with that, too.

They go back to their tree and re-engage the harness, but in the morning there's some kind of crier from the city--they can hear him from where they sit--shouting their names and proclaiming them the witch-hunters.

As all their plans have revolved primarily around the reality that with no family and no credentials in particular, they would probably find work as laborers or (ugh) house servants, 'witch hunters' sounds pretty appealing. 

Plus, well, and they'd get to kill witches.

Hansel sits in the tree long after Gretel has gone to forage for breakfast. If they're going to hunt witches on purpose, as a planned activity rather than one of chance, he's going to find a way to improve his range with a blade.

\--

Apparently, and this is not something Hansel has ever cared about although he knows Gretel will often stop and wash at a stream even if she's neither bleeding nor muddy, _apparently_ , people, and this is the loose definition that includes witches, can smell you coming if you go a long time without a bath.

Of course, this time he _is_ bloody; the way he learned this truth was by being smelt and discovered, and god damn it, he _hates_ when they send out shredder spells. Curses. Whatever. Four fucking years and nineteen witches down, and he still can't duck those fast enough.

Well, someday. 

He lowers himself gingerly in the pool and pokes at the welling blood on his thigh and ribcage, where there are too many individual wounds to press them shut all at once anyway. If Gretel were here, she'd bandage it, and probably he should get out and do it himself, but she's in a cave up the hill doing inventory for his sugar syrup. He only has a dozen vials left, and that's way lower than they ever want to get, which is why he was working alone to take down Brunhilda or whatever this one was called in the first place.

He shudders at the memory of her cackle as she called him out for his strange boy smells, then groans when the movement slices fresh cold water through his open cuts.

Actually, the cuts still aren't slowing, and that's worrying; he wonders if maybe he's actually been poisoned, which is a standing joke between him and Gretel but honestly, witches are more about curses than poisons, and he _is_ good at ducking _those_ thank fuck. Ever since the first time he saw the curse of crawling things play out, he's been pretty sure he wanted to forever not experience any curses from any witches, ever.

Well, okay, that wasn't a new feeling at the time, but it was reinforced, yuck.

He slides down a little further in the pool, waving away the cloudy bloody water and looking at the cuts more carefully.

Which, with his concentration focused like that, is when he realizes that he's been seen, and that bears are not good watering-hole companions when one is injured and unarmed. She sniffs at him, and lifts a muddy paw, and shit, there's really no choice. He pushes away from the edge and sinks down over his head. The surface isn't far away; the pool is perhaps seven feet deep, so looking up, he can see her there, waiting for him, so he scrambles toward the far edge.

He's never getting in a pool without at least a slingshot again. If he ever gets the chance in the first place. Shit. The far slope is slick, steep, and mossy with slick sharp extrusions in the slime just enough to make the surface impossible to climb, and he can't get purchase, clawing with his hands and his toes as his chest _burns_ and his legs try to push him up often enough to get air. He can't swim for shit (seriously, it's warm enough to do it for fun roughly five minutes a decade, and usually he just stays in the shallows in the first place) and besides the blood loss, his medication supply is weighing him down.

Finally, just when he thinks he's fucked, he hears a pair of claps above him, and then a hand reaches down into the water and Gretel pulls him up, dragging his abused thighs against the jagged edges and--fuck!-- slicing the holster right off him.

Which means he has about two hours until he's fucked a whole other way.

He gasps at her and spits water as she makes sure the bear is actually dead and not just knocked out (upside to this whole adventure: that's going to make a good warm cloak, among other things, and he's been wanting to work on ways to include claw elements in their arsenal; downside: now they're going to have to butcher and portion a fucking _bear_ ), and then she jumps in and tries to rescue the drug.

Naturally, all but three of the vials are either smashed or sliced, and of those three, one is badly bent; it probably won't deliver a full dose.

Hansel looks at the mess and adds to the long list of rules in his head: no wearing the holster into the water. Also, no getting in water. Seriously. _Next to_ the water is _completely fine_. (No, he's going to have to figure out how to swim and add 'come up with a way to breathe underwater' to their to-do list, just in case)

"How'd you know I was down there?" he asks, once he finally catches his breath.

"I can always tell when something's wrong, Hansel, especially when something's wrong with _you_. You know that." She shrugs. "And then I got here and there was a pile of your bloody clothes and a bear. It seemed like a pretty easy call."

He has to agree, that makes sense. 

Without further discussion he grabs his pants and shirt and follows Gretel back to the cave. He's still dripping blood, which is a problem, but they don't have any old-school needles on them, so he needs to start manufacturing more vials so when the drug is ready, he has a chance. And he only has less than a day, most likely, before he reverts to uselessness and leaves Gretel on her own, again.

Someday she's going to decide she's better off alone and _without_ his sorry ass to worry about, he's sure; he'll probably agree, when the time comes.

She bandages his ribs and he pulls on a sorta-clean shirt, then starts dicking around with metal shavings and the mold while her hands run over his thigh and up onto his hip.

It's probably messed up that he winds up glad of the shirt covering his groin at least well enough for deniability because it's just embarrassing that he gets so wound up over his _sister_ who definitely does not need any more reasons he's a pain in her ass, but god, he's glad when she's done and he can turn away to pull on his pants and then immediately go out looking for someplace to relieve himself.

What, hey, it's relief, just not because of his bladder. Close enough.

\--

The first witch they find living underwater leaves Hansel totally unimpressed. For one thing, there's a reason folk wisdom says to see if witches float (if so, guilty), and that's that everyone knows (ha!) that witches can't swim, so they use their magic to keep them up top. As if there aren't way more reliable ways to identify witches. Anyway. This witch not only doesn't have that problem (buh-bye, folk wisdom! Don't let the door hit ya!), but has an entire lair thing going on down there, deep enough the top isn't reachable from the surface and shallow enough he can completely see her taunting them in there.

Which, that's got to fucking stop.

Gretel's a better straight shot, still, but shooting into water is always weird because water moves everything and rifles are slow. And shotgun pellets are slowed too badly by the water itself.

Which means this one is up to Hansel. He's better with the kind of acrobatics and complicated angles that come up in enclosed spaces (usually), and... and if he thinks about it much longer, he's going to freak himself out and leave everything up to Gretel. Again.

Nope. He hated every second of figuring out how to swim, but he can do this. He can.

He unstraps the meds holster from his thigh and checks the clock. He looks at Gretel. "Forty minutes," he tells her. "Stay or go?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Stay. I'll go." She knows exactly how he feels about going deep, and it's clear she expects him to let her take this bitch down.

"No," he says. "Your guns are no good under water, and knives mean a lot of power."

She tilts her head. "You think I'm weak?"

He doesn't take the bait. "I think I'm going to need you to drag my ass out, if she's a sneaky snake and keeps me looking for her. Plus, your guns _are_ good up top, so you're on sentry." 

"If you say so." She takes his holster and straps in on her own leg so it can't get lost. "Forty it is." She starts up the nearest large tree, and Hansel strips out of his shirt and pants, puts on the (untried, so this should be fun...) water-breathing shoulder pack and yanks the cord that fills it with air, checks his knives and the crossbow which is probably also unreliable underwater but this is a good chance to check, and takes several deep breaths, then sticks the tube from the shoulder pack in his mouth and slides into the lake.

The water is clear--he could and can see through it fine--but it feel nasty and dirty on his skin. He ignores that and tests out the breathing device while he still has footing if he needs it; it works (woohoo!) and so he heads for the west side of the structure. There are no visible doors anywhere that he could see from above the surface, but witches are predictable about some things, and a little over half of them place any hidden doors they have on their west walls.

Of course, hardly any of them live underwater, so for all he knows, this is a shitty guess, but he's gotta start somewhere.

Fortunately, this witch seems to have used up her creative-living-space points on location; the door is exactly where he thinks it will be, and the four traps on it trigger in order, right where expected. Also, Gretel probably wouldn't have been able to haul the crank around for the fourth, so he was going to have to come down here anyway. 

Hansel waits for the fourth trap to settle, then hunkers down where he'll be out of sight when she comes to check.

While he waits, he notices a trickle of water--mist, more than drops, but still--coming into his mouth with his air, and rolls his eyes. New for the to-do list: _waterproof_ the way to breathe underwater. He bites down on the tube and holds his breath instead.

After that, the actual capture and beheading is no problem. Messy, because instead of just dripping gore, there's ick floating everywhere, but whatever, once he swims free, that'll come off. More or less. He tries not to think about it.

However, keeping his teeth closed on the tube while fighting the witch and also holding his breath is not awesome. Not awesome at all. He gets out of the mess with the head in his hand for burning and tries to jump for the surface, but--oh hey. Awesome. Trap five: can't leave the bottom of the lake. What is _with_ these people with the traps that only spring when it's too fucking late to save them? Who _thinks_ like this? He waves at Gretel, trying to convey _screwed here please save me_ with one arm, and, because he seriously has to, takes another breath from the backpack. It's ...wet.

He tries not to cough, mostly succeeds, and growls at the witch-head in his hand, then looks up at the splashing noise overhead. Gretel holds something where he can see it, then drops it in the lake.

Two somethings: a second airbag weighted down with a rock (good, breathing is good), and a net. He swaps tubes and picks up the net. Oh. It's a net with a lead line that goes back to Gretel. He tries climbing the rope. 

Nope.

He looks back at Gretel and holds up both hands in a shrug. "What?"

She mimes putting something in a bag, so he puts the head in the net, ties it shut, and drops it. Annnd yep, then he can leave the bottom of the lake. Thank fuck.

As soon he crawls out of the water, shivering and sputtering, she pulls up the line and tosses the head, net and all, onto the fire she must have built while he was waiting. The witch's head screams, but they're used to that, and Hansel flops on his back on the ground and listens to her die until Gretel comes to stand over him. "Hansel, were you trying to prove something by going in there? Because you don't have to prove anything to _me_ , you know, and there was no reason I couldn't have done the job, except for it would have taken me longer to spring the traps."

Ugh, she's always been good at seeing through him, because maybe he was trying to prove something, just a little, but he shakes his head. "Nah. Just pullin' my own weight. If it gets around I have an issue with water, everyone will start creating water features just to put us off, just like if they figure you're my sidekick, they'll try to do annoying shit like _kidnap_ you instead of taking you seriously."

That's not a guess; the first year everyone figured if someone kidnapped Gretel, Hansel would have to spend their fee ransoming her back. Fortunately, Gretel is hard to kidnap, but it's still a worry for him for a lot of reasons, like for example she keeps him alive. Which also definitely people can't know. Plus, he'd miss her terribly.

"I see." She grabs his clothes and sits down beside him. "Well, I need you, so next time, don't run out of air."

"Oh, is that what I should do?" He nudges her with his shoulder. "I should breathe _air_?" 

She shrug-nodded at him, arching a brow. "I hear it's the thing." 

He sighs and leans toward her, then suddenly spins and takes her down, pinning her. "You're a smartass, you know that?"

"Family trait." She squirms and gets a leg free to wrap around him and turns them the other way, leaning over him with a grin. "Got a problem?"

He does, actually; he knows better than to play with her physically any more, because somewhere along the line his body got ideas and it's not letting go, but what's he going to do, push her away? He scowls. "Our other family trait involves shooting, slicing, and eviscerating witches, then cleaning up the mess. Comparatively..."

She sets her knees to either side of him and sits up, weight on his crotch (shit!), and arches a brow. 

Then she leans forward again, shifting against him--seriously, she can't be missing the issue here--and says, "I think we need a new rule?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Well, no, more of a tradition.

"What's that?" God, she's killing him here.

"I think dead witches should mean celebrations." 

"Bonfires? Roasted meat and dancing?"

She shakes her head, shifts again, and runs a hand up under his shirt. "Maybe just the dancing part. So to speak."

Hansel groans. "Gert, that's just--"

"Totally appropriate for people who live the lives we live?"

She does have a point, and Hansel groans again. "Just wrong," he manages, not that he has any moral authority given how at this point it's all he can do not to pull her shirt over her head. "How long have you known?"

"Oh, Hansel," she says. "I always know what's going on with you. You _know_ that."

He considers, for a minute, that this means she's known all along what the changes to their bodies were doing to him, and she's still here. And she can definitely take care of herself, so she could have ditched him if she actually wanted to. He's still pretty sure it's a terrible idea, but they're both (more or less) adults (well, okay, fine, they have adult jobs, close enough), and what's he going to do, turn her down?

"Well in that case," he says, finally. "In that case, then I think you should get your celebration." He settles his hands on her hips. "Where do you want to start." It kind of feels like not breathing, what she's suggesting, but way better, and way less frightening. He can do this. And then she moves again and _oh_! ...yeah, he really can.


End file.
